


do monsters dream of mangled sheep?

by betamax524



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 16:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5593540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betamax524/pseuds/betamax524
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Erik has been through hell and back, he's done things that would make any other person blanch and run away. He has blood on his hands and he's pretty sure he has a price on his head as well. But none of that is as absolutely terrifying as the moment before he opens his eyes in the mornings where he thinks he'll wake up to an empty bed in a rundown motel with nothing but his memories for company.</em><br/>---<br/>Dreams, and what they mean for Erik Lehnsherr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	do monsters dream of mangled sheep?

**Author's Note:**

> happy new year!
> 
> warnings for some violent/gory imagery, but it's not that explicit :~0

**i.**

A long time ago, before he even felt metal calling out to him, before Mama died, before Schmidt, before everything went wrong, Erik's scariest dreams were all similar.

Standing in front of a faceless mass of people, throat closing up in fear, looking down only to find himself naked, and hearing everyone else erupt in laughter.

It all seems so quaint now.

 

 

 **ii.**  
The air is stale and reeks of antiseptic, even in his dreams. But here, he's the one holding the gun, cold and heavy in his hands. Herr Doktor's mouth is moving slowly, and what comes out are only garbled sounds he doesn't bother to understand. Erik breathes in, aims right at Schmidt's forehead, and pulls the trigger.

Everything is deafeningly silent for a moment, the blood trickling down Schmidt's forehead a sharp contrast to the mess on the wall behind him. He shakes his head once, twice, and the bullet simply pops out of his wound and lands on the table. "You've done very well, boy," he leers, the hole in his head slowly closing up, " _I'm proud of you_."

Erik wakes up with his fingers curled in too-thin sheets, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

 

 

 **iii.**  
Sometimes he finds himself in an endless hallway, morose portraits hanging on the walls. They watch him as he walks onwards down the path, his footsteps echoing around him. They watch silently as barbed wires crawl from the shadows, latching onto his legs and digging in deep.

He can hear Mama calling for him, he knows she's waiting, so he keeps walking, even as the barbs break skin and draw blood. He keeps walking, even as the wires slowly climb up his body. The smarting pain is nothing compared to his still-healing wounds, so he walks, and walks, and walks, and walks, and walks, and walks, and walks, and walks, and walks, and walks...

 

 

 **iv.**  
He's nodded off in a train, clutching the too-large suitcase close to his chest, the hum of the metal around him lulling him to a deep sleep.

Even in his dreams he's running, tracking blood through the snow, the sound of many footsteps not too far away. It hurts to breathe, and it feels like his lungs are aching, banging against his ribs. But he can't stop, even if it feels like his left arm's about to fall off from carrying the suitcase filled with gold bars, and his coat weighed down by a gun and more gold bars.

He jolts awake when he feels someone sit beside him, and looks over the stranger as he pretends to scratch at his eyes. The stranger smiles at him, and he gives a small smile in return.

They get off at the same stop, but Erik boards the train again some time later, wearing a new coat with a thick cap covering his eyes.

 

 

 **v.**  
He's in a stark white room now, his clothes bloodied and messy. There's a sink there, against one of the walls, so he goes there to wash off. A simple twist of the faucet heads, and he focuses first on scrubbing off the blood caked on his hands and under his fingernails. Sometime during his ministrations, the water seems to slowly get warmer and thicker, and when he gazes down, blood is flowing from the faucet. He feels his chest grow smaller, and he rushes to turn it off, only for his hands to slip, letting the blood flow even stronger.

The scent of blood is getting stronger, and even when he shuts his eyes tightly he can see red and the sharpness of the smell makes him dizzy. He gulps in one breath, and another one, ignoring the pounding of his heart and the throbbing pain in his head.

It doesn't stop, it won't stop, it just keeps going keeps flowing keeps bleeding keeps _gushing_ keeps going _keeps going keeps going keeps going_ it's overflowing it's dripping down to the floor and it won't stop it won't stop _it won't stop_ and he can feel the warmth of the blood against the soles of his feet and his heartbeat is too loud in his head and he's gulping in breaths like he's drowning and the scent is getting stronger and stronger and he swears he smells rotting flesh and he digs his fingernails into his palms as the blood rises to his knees to his _thighs to his waist to his chest to his neck until he's drowning in it and all he sees is red and all he smells it's blood and it won't stop and he's breathing it in and it's entering his lungs and he can taste the slight metallic tang and-_

He wakes up to the sound of the rusty shower head falling onto the tiles, and he opens his eyes to find that his motel room's a mess. He gingerly makes his way to the bathroom, looks over himself in the old mirror, and hesitantly turns on the faucet.

And he stands there, watching the water flow down the drain, as clear as he can get it in a shithole like this. It's water. _Just_ water.

 

 

 **vi.**  
When he sees Ruth in his dreams, it always catches him off-guard. She seems even smaller now, barely ten years old, bundled up in a coat and scarf with her winter cap tugged snugly around her head.

"What took you so long?" she says, pretending to scold him. "I've been waiting for you."

His eyes are stinging with tears, and before Ruth can say another word, he drops to his knees and holds her tightly in his arms, pressing his face into the folds of her scarf. They stay that way until Erik feels his tears drying on his cheeks. He shifts a bit so he can see her and cup her face in his hands, but his hands pass right through her.

No. No no no no don't leave me here ruth i'm sorry i'm so sorry i lied please stay here i'm so alone ruth please please _please please i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm so so sorry no no no don't leave me don't go don't go d **on't leave me alone**_

He screams until his throat is hoarse, grasping at the figure of his sister fading away in wisps of smoke.

 

 

 **vii.**  
"Stay out of my head," he says, because he can feel the barbed wires rusted and bloody crawling out of the shadows as he desperately slams up mental walls of pure steel.

Charles doesn't need to see those things. Innocent, trusting, and so frustratingly _naive_ , he's sure Charles would be eaten alive by his own dreams and the memories roaming his mind.

But then one night in a nondescript motel, he dreams of Schmidt-no, _Shaw_ -cutting him open excruciatingly slowly, the porcelain blades a mocking cool against the heat of his skin. It hurts to clench his jaws this tightly, but he knows Shaw takes pride in hearing him cry out in pain, so he grinds his teeth and shuts his eyes tightly. His fingernails dig grooves into his palm, and every breath he takes is measured, his heart hammering in his head and blocking out the sounds of the blades and Shaw's muttering.

Then there's a gentle touch against his cheek, and he forces his eyes open to see Shaw slowly nodding off to sleep in a chair. He looks up and he recognizes the blue eyes looking down at him at once.

"I thought I told you to stay out," he protests weakly, as Charles softly hums and brushes away the sweat beading on his forehead. "You shouldn't be here," he says softly, tears starting to stream down his face as Charles so gently patches him up.

He wakes up to Charles clutching him by the waist, breathing on the nape of his neck as the warmth of his telepathy slowly weaves out of Erik's head. Erik gets up first, but takes a moment to tuck the blankets in around him and whisper a 'thank you.'

 

 

 **viii.**  
Over one chess match, Charles offhandedly mentions how Erik is dedicated to his cause like a hound hunting foxes. Erik simply tilts his head in acknowledgement, because he knows no matter what he does, he'll always be the fox, bloodied and running for his life in scrambled lines. He'll always be a living target for every heaving hound looking for a game.

One night, he finds himself in a fox's body once again, but instead of the lurking unease and danger he always feels, there's that warmth that reminds him of old bound books and tea with honey and sugar. He laughs, because even when Charles' isn't connected to his mind, he can still feel him in his dreams.

(It's something so precious for him that he doesn't know if he should be pleased by this or if he should start getting worried.)

In this dream, he ends up becoming friends with a young man who decides to take him home and patch up his wounds. He doesn't understand the soft murmurs the young man gives as freely as gentle strokes on his head, but he doesn't mind. The hounds bark and growl in the woods surrounding their little home, but he's never felt this safe before.

When he wakes up, there's this ache he's never felt before, this yearning and desire that absolutely terrifies him. He comes out of the shower fully dressed to find Charles stretching and sleepily blinking his eyes open. He greets Erik a good morning with his hair sticking up everywhere, and Erik's breath catches in his throat and a warmth spreads in his chest.

_Oh._

 

 

 **ix.**  
Erik has been through hell and back, he's done things that would make any other person blanch and run away. He has blood on his hands and he's pretty sure he has a price on his head as well. But none of that is as absolutely terrifying as the moment before he opens his eyes in the mornings where he thinks he'll wake up to an empty bed in a rundown motel with nothing but his memories for company. When he wakes up and sees Charles' sleeping face on the pillow beside him, he breathes a sigh of relief.

He's never been this afraid of losing something before.

Every day feels like a dream now, even with the threat of war looming over the horizon. He wakes up to the sunlight peeking in through the curtains, has his morning run in the still-dewey gardens around the mansion, and comes back in to shower and start making breakfast. It's surreal, stirring in honey and sugar into a cup of tea while also preparing coffee, hearing footsteps and not having to worry about who it'll be.

He laughs, he tries to get the children (their children? their children) to try dishes he remembers eating as a young boy, and slowly he finds that he doesn't have to look over his shoulder that much anymore.

 _I love you,_ he whispers in the dim glow of a lamp's light filtered by a blanket over their heads. _I love you,_ he repeats over and over, _I love you so much , I don't understand how or why, but I do, I do, I do..._

Erik still has nightmares sometimes, but now he wakes up to arms gently holding him and a sense of belonging he thought he lost so long ago.

 

 

 **x.**  
They say everything good comes to an end, but Erik never expected it to come crashing down around him in a deafening silence and come face to face with a chasm of regret and painful loneliness.

He still sees Charles in his dreams, grasping at his memories of him in a desperate attempt to stay afloat. But now he's always so far away, looking at him sadly from across a path of glass shards and metal shrapnel. And no matter how far Erik makes it across, no matter how much he bleeds, Charles is always, always, so far away.

But this is all can he have, so he settles for just this. In his dreams, Charles watches over him sadly as he sinks into the debris, and if this is what he deserves, Erik will take what he can get. So he closes his eyes, and lets the glass and shrapnel cut into him.

_I'm sorry Charles, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry._

 

 

 

 

 

 **0.**  
_I'm sorry Charles, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry._

Charles wakes up in the middle of the night, scratching his eyes in confusion. It should be impossible for him to feel Erik's thoughts by now, with both the helmet and all these unknown miles between them.

But Charles is no saint, no monk, so he clings to these ghosts of a voice, even if it he's making this up.

 _I know, I know, it's okay, I'll always forgive just please come back to me,_ he sends out, giving in to the small hope in his chest that this is really Erik he's talking to.

 

 

(For the first time in a very long time, Erik feels like he's going to make it through somehow. He doesn't know how, but he does.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [do monsters dream of mangled sheep? (shepherd remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7985662) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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